


Hello Again, My Dear

by Val_Creative



Series: Warlock & His Dollophead [14]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Immortal Merlin, M/M, Modern Era, Reincarnation, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:42:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1616408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Creative/pseuds/Val_Creative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a Wednesday, and it’s a terrible, beautiful day.</p><p>The day everything Merlin built up in place to withstand his immortal days comes to ruins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello Again, My Dear

**Author's Note:**

> (A very special thank you to my friends on Skype who encouraged this on, even when I was whining, and The Merlin Family as well as The Warlock and His King Network on Tumblr for being a wonderfully excitable bunch ❤ ❤ ❤ )
> 
>  
> 
> Day #14: "69"

*

 

It's a Wednesday, and it's a terrible, beautiful day.

The day everything Merlin built up in place to withstand his immortal days comes to ruins.

He stands motionless in the Promenade of Light on Old Street, and Merlin's heart restarts to emotions not felt in over a thousand years.

The man who was Arthur carries a brolly and a shopping bag, one speckled with glistening droplets and the other made of cheap, brown packaging. His hair a shade redder than blond, eyes darker. Features less square and defined, his ears gauged with tie-dye color silicon plugs.

Once he knows, the very stars pull themselves in realignment and the universe holds its measureless breath, along with a dismayed Merlin.

It's _him_. The earth's magic knows, as well as him, surrendering to the thrum.

Arthur's eyes peer up from his mobile, blinking over his thick-rimmed glasses, as if mystified at nothing particular. He then spots Merlin, almost tripping over himself sprinting towards him, pleasantly concerned and _ignorant_.

He _doesn't_ know Merlin, not even while clasping onto Merlin's trembling, sweaty hand. He doesn't know after accepting the rushed invitation for a stroll, and then finding themselves paying-per-minute at the _Ziferblat_ cafe, impressed by the aesthetic decor, snacking on thin biscuits and losing £9 in five splendid hours of intimate conversation.

Besides the differences—this Arthur's three younger brothers, his disinterest in any involvement of sport, never once called Merlin a _buffoon_ —it's _his_ Arthur.

The way he threw his head back when he laughed. How willing Arthur had been to put other people's needs before his (giving his second kidney to one of his brothers). How open-hearted Arthur's facial expressions could be when he and Merlin were alone.

It takes _everything_ Merlin's built up inside him not to take Arthur's face into both of his hands, touch him fondly and affirm this was no dream.

Arthur's a ginger. He wore _indie_ jeans. His fleshy cock would fill the lining of Merlin's mouth so nicely, hot and stiff and drooling pre-cum. He would lay on top of him, sucking him down, feeling Arthur reversed beneath him, opening his lips to Merlin's cockhead and breathing on it.

He would let Arthur fuck up into his mouth, quickening the pace as his own cock dug into Arthur's whimpering throat, trapped in slickness and convulsing heat. Because they never _did_ fuck, and Merlin regretted that.

Hundreds of years, of regret and waiting, of death around him. Arthur's own death ravaged the hearts of many true to him in Camelot.

The night of the candlelight vigil for the Once and Future King, for a king and a good man, could have been mistaken for a second dawn. Mills of people streamed below the citadel, thronging the roads from the lower town and even dully glowing from the furthermost of the outlying villages.

He and Arthur's wife—one of Merlin's dearest friends—remained in the tower, suffering the enveloping, comforting dark of the bedchamber.

Gwen eventually summoned her nerve, dabbing her eyes with a linen handkerchief. She called out to Merlin, softly, and then firmly. And when he did not move an inch from the window, Gwen had bent him forward and kissed his brow in understanding. Wiping the moisture from his cheeks with swipes of her lovely, warm thumbs.

She had joined her people and the knights as another mournful flicker, marching with her own candle. Merlin had no light to offer, to carry then.

There would never be a light worthy of Arthur. Not _one_.

Not until they shone against Arthur's navy military pea coat, illuminating the halo of his reddish-blond hair and Merlin thrums along with his magic.

It's Wednesday, and he says goodbye to Arthur, nudging his elbow.

But not for long.

Merlin's world had just _restarted_.

 

*


End file.
